


Technology Sucks

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexuality, Dark Will, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, M/M, Murder Husbands, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sassy Will, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:21:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A young Hannibal Lecter accidentally pocket dials a stranger while in the middle of committing murder. A partnership ensues, in which both sides have things to learn.In which Will has a serious case of attitude, and Hannibal is far from the suave serial killer we all know him to be now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/non-con only applies to the first chapter, and then the rest of the violence in the story is entirely non-sexual.
> 
> And I know I've already got two unfinished works out, but this was too much fun to write. I really think y'all are gonna enjoy it!

Terribly average in appearance, the possessor of a revoltingly shrill voice, and considerably underweight thanks to the stress of a recent divorce, Doctor Margaret Rippetoe is a middle-aged woman without much going for her, as far as sexual appeal goes.

Even if she were young and stunning, a picture of health with a smooth, honeyed voice, Hannibal wouldn't be interested in her. He isn't at all interested in sex--not with Doctor Rippetoe or anyone else.

But she doesn't know that, and nor does she need to. If the only way she's going to invite an undergraduate into her home is under the pretense of sex, then Hannibal is willing to deceive her.

It was easy to seduce her, once he determined that was his only conceivable point of entry. A few carefully-placed double entendres, a few lingering glances here and there, and she was quick to invite him over for the night.

He expected that a woman of her status would at least arrange a date, but she insisted that he join her immediately. It was an unexpected course of events, but Hannibal supposes it's easier to get it over with sooner than later.

She drove him from her office to her off-campus apartment, where he currently stands, bewildered in the kitchen, surveying her meager selection of ingredients.

Doctor Rippetoe is in the bathroom, having told him when they entered that she needed to 'freshen up.' 

Hannibal decides that it will be easiest to persuade her to give him what he wants over dinner. He's planning to cook her something, hoping woo her via non-sexual oral sensations. 

Her kitchen is slim pickings, however. He isn't entirely sure what he can do with wilted lettuce, frozen whole grain bread, and leftover Chinese takeout that could quite frankly months old, judging by the smell. Doctor Rippetoe is clearly underweight for a reason, he supposes. He wouldn't want to eat, either, if that was all he had to choose from.

Sighing, he supposes he could simply procure what he needs through less direct methods. 

He begins searching around for a rolodex or contact book through the piles of clutter filling virtually every space in her apartment. The task is nigh impossible, however, seeing that she doesn't even know how to keep her patient files separate from her magazines and academic journals.

After several minutes of searching, and still no sign of Doctor Rippetoe, Hannibal realizes that he won't be finding what he's looking for. Frustrated, he's concerned that he might actually have to  _engage_ with the woman, or leave with nothing useful at all.

There's simply no  _logical_ place to find a rolodex--and he is not going to consider the possibility she doesn't have one, because what upstanding human being  _doesn't_ have a rolodex?

However, it dawned on him that she, despite her middle age, might have been a technological convert, and therefore all of her contacts would be stored digitally.

Her purse is precariously perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, and he hurries over to sift through it before she reemerges from her bathroom. He finds her cellular phone tossed in the main compartment of the bag, and he pulls it out quickly.

It occurs to him that her phone might be looked, but given her apparent carelessly messy lifestyle, he doubts it.

He isn't sure whether he's supposed to press a button or slide the screen or tap something, so he just does everything at once, which results in the screen flashing white and making a sound reminiscent of a camera shutter.

When that doesn't open it, he tries everything separately, and the phone unlocks when he taps the round button at the bottom. 

He pokes around on the phone until he finds an application labeled 'Contacts,' and opens it with haste. He doesn't look at the names listed when he sees the little bar with a magnifying glass icon on it. 

A search bar, he presumes.

He types 'Frederick Chilton' into it, but nothing shows up.

Perplexed, he deletes that entry and begins scrolling through the listings, but to no avail. The name of each and every contact in her phone is encoded with obscure words and colorful symbols (emoji, if he remembers correctly), which is a shocking precaution from someone as absentminded as Doctor Rippetoe.

Grudgingly, he supposes he has to do this the hard way.

He's about to put the phone back when the doctor herself bursts into the living room, wearing nothing but loose lingerie. In Hannibal's surprise and horror, he drops the cell phone and it clatters to the floor, face down. 

Doctor Rippetoe doesn't even notice; she's too busy staring at Hannibal, lust in her eyes.

"I thought it wouldn't be necessary to follow through with formalities," she purrs, stalking towards him in a very catlike manner, "seeing as you were so  _eager_ in my office."

Hannibal stiffens and swallows. There had been no such eagerness; he had simply been suggestive.

"Oh, don't tell me you're shy," she laughs, slinking closer. He can see the veins beneath her skin like she is translucent; it reminds him of fish in the larval stage, with their egg sac still attached, non-opaque and vulnerable.

She smells of sweat, arousal, drug-store lotion, and bad (but not cheap) perfume.

Backing slowly against the counter, Hannibal braces himself. "I'm used to a certain order to these things, Doctor Rippetoe."

Tittering, Doctor Rippetoe closes in on him, touching his face with a cold hand. "I told you to call me Maggie," she sighs. "And don't worry; you foreign boys are all the same. So eager to please, but when you finally get close to a beautiful American girl"--she presses her chest against him, causing him to hold his breath--"you get so nervous!"

Hannibal clenches his jaw, hesitant to push her away lest his skin come in contact with her bare flesh.

Normally, bodies don't disturb him so much, but he usually only has to deal with them when they're dead. Even when they are still alive, they aren't trying to pounce on him--not like this, at least.

"I really should go, Doctor Rippetoe," grits Hannibal, shrinking himself against the counter. "I don't feel up to sex, I'm afraid."

A frown crosses her face, and she places a hand on his chest, clutching his shirt.

"But I got myself all pretty for you," she mumbles, her lips pursing to form a pout. She digs her fingers into his chest, and her other hand slides towards his groin, gripping there before he can stop her. "You can't say no now."

Hannibal bucks, but not out of pleasure. Alarm and rage fill him, and panic signals fire in his brain. Before he can even stop himself, he shoves her, sending her  tumbling across the room and onto the floor.

"Didn't anyone tell you that touching without permission is rude, Doctor Rippetoe?"

The panic has quickly filtered into a controlled rage. She no longer has the advantage, and he can deal with her smoothly now.

Hannibal has never killed out of passion or anger. Typically, he calculates his kills, plans them well before striking. It makes clean up easier, but this is nothing he can't handle.

She's on the floor, her eyes wide. She sees him for what he is now, and the sharp, bitter scent of fear begins to roll off of her in waves. Hannibal doesn't let his excitement show on his face (something he's been practicing) and begins to stalk towards her.

"Oh my god," she says. "You came here to kill me, didn't you? Oh my god. " 

Her voice is weak, and she's already started to hyperventilate. She tries to scramble to her feet, but Hannibal is on her before she can escape, pinning her to the ground.

"I wasn't planning on it," he confesses, digging his knee into her chest, "but I can't stand it when people are  _rude."_ He brings his hands up to her neck. "How many times have you not taken 'no' for an answer, Doctor Rippetoe?"

The woman splutters and thrashes under his grip, and he squeezes harder, crushing bones and ligaments in her neck. He presses further into her chest with his knee, too, and he barely has to strain. She's already so weak from malnourishment, and her bones are brittle under his force.

She makes a few last choking sounds as her ribcage cracks and her body runs out of oxygen, and then she is still. Hannibal checks her pulse, verifying that she's dead.

He pushes himself to his feet and sighs. "A pity I hadn't planned this," he mumbles to himself. "I do prefer there to be blood in these situations."

That said, he doesn't have his proper equipment, and without having planned anything, he can't make much of a design out of her body. He'll have to dispose of it in a more mundane fashion.

But first, of course, he has to clean things up, which will be difficult.

He touched a lot of things when searching for that goddamned rolodex.

So, first, he settles on the things he knows he's touched. He wipes down the counters, the refrigerator door, the purse.

It's only when he gets to the phone that he realizes he's made a terrible mistake.

The screen is on, and it's showing a modified version of a contact page. Namely, he sees the red button at the bottom that he knows would trigger the phone to drop a call. 

 _The_ call. The phone is on, and there's an ongoing call.

Numbers on the screen indicate that the call has been going on for nearly fifteen minutes, meaning that if there's anyone on the other end, they overheard the death of Margaret Rippetoe.

He can't at all determine who the call is from. It simply has two blue heart symbols and the word 'grammie,' in all lowercase text.

Hesitantly, keeping his breathing steady, Hannibal lifts the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" the person at the other end asks. 

The voice catches Hannibal off guard. He thought that 'grammie' might indicate a grandmother, but this voice is deep, and there's a rough, Southern drawl to it as well.

"Doctor Rippetoe? Are you alright?"

Hannibal says nothing, but he doesn't hang up yet. He thinks that might be a bad idea.

"No, I guess you're not. Sounded pretty dead to me." The voice on the other end laughs, a hearty sound. "Is this the man who killed her, then?"

Swallowing, Hannibal says, "You don't sound very upset about it."

"Neither do you, big guy."

Hannibal takes a deep breath, knowing that this could be very bad. This is why he despises technology; the witness doesn't even have to be in the room for there to be a witness.

"What do you want?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can already  _feel_ the building tension of a stress headache.

This could very well be the end of him. He can see it now--a lifetime spent eating bland prison slop and listening to the grunting sounds of degenerate lowlifes masturbating in the next cell over.

He would sooner die than face a fate as dull as that.

The person at the other end is silent for a moment, and then they chortle. "For my silence, you mean?" 

Hannibal bites his tongue.

"Yes," he answers. "While you don't know my name, you seem to have heard enough that you could give the police a strong lead. I could end up in prison for this."

"Oh, not could," the voice answers, devious even just in tone. "You would be, definitely. Based on your attitude and what you muttered about blood, I think it's safe to assume this isn't your first kill."

He says nothing to confirm or deny this statement.

"And even if there wasn't all that, I  _do_ know your name, _Hannibal._ And with a unique name like that... well, I'm sure you won't be too hard to find."

Hannibal's chest tightens in horror. He wants to ask how this seemingly omniscient voice knows his name. Are cellular phones capable of more atrocities than he's currently aware of? What if it had captured a photo of his face when he used it?

"In case you're wondering how I know that," the voice continues, completely smug, "Doctor Rippetoe called me just an hour before cancelling our regular appointment. Said she had found a delicious young man named  _Hannibal,_ and I can only assume that's you."

"You must have a very unorthodox doctor-patient relationship if she felt inclined to tell you about my visit."

It's all he can say, really. He's in shock.

This really is the end of him.

And the person who will be his downfall seems painfully  _casual_ about it, to add salt to the wound. He has always hoped that if he had to go down, it would be at the hands of an archenemies. He hasn't even been in America long enough to acquire a minor _rival._

Hell, he's barely made a name for himself! He hasn't even murdered ten people, and no one's had the brains to string them all together yet. 

He doesn't want to go out like this, like some common thug!

"Oh, Margaret isn't my psychiatrist," the voice assures him. "I'm--or I was, I suppose--her special interest."

"Special... interest?" Hannibal shudders at the thought. "You willingly let that woman touch you? On a regular, appointed basis?"

A snigger on the other end of the line. "Oh, gods, no. She just liked to try and get into my head. She was trying to get me to let her run tests on me, but I wasn't going to let her go so far." He pauses, and Hannibal can sense a mischief in the silence. "I was going to kill her myself, but I guess you took that from me. Too bad."

Not sure if he should relax or become even more alarmed, Hannibal just says, "Oh."

Truly, Hannibal had always hoped he would make a good impression upon meeting his first compatriot. Now, he realizes, he just looks sloppy.

"Oh, don't be sorry!" The voice laughs again, apparently delighted. "No, no. This might be better."

"Better?"

Again, he applauds himself for the banter. Hannibal Lecter, the King of Wit.

"Yeah, much better. Do you like coffee, Hannibal?"

Hannibal blinks. He glances over at the dead body on the floor, and then pinches himself. While everything is utterly surreal, nothing seems to be a hallucination or a dream.

"I'm sorry?"

"I asked if you like coffee."

Hannibal frowns. "Occasionally."

"Well, you'll have to make an occasion for it, because I think we should meet for some."

"And if I don't?" Hannibal queries, despite his hesitance.

"Then I'll tell the cops the good Doctor Rippetoe cancelled our appointment in favor of a man named Hannibal, and went missing shortly after. And that won't be so good for you, will it?"

Hannibal pauses, sighing. He's not even going to suggest reporting whoever this is, namely because he doesn't feel like it would be a good idea to tell the police another murderer he doesn't know the name of is blackmailing  _him_ for murder.

"Where would you like to meet?" he asks, defeated.

"I'll text you the time and place, okay?" The voice lets out a happy sigh. "Oh, we're going to have fun, Hannibal."

"I'm sure." He doesn't even try to feign excitement.

"Don't forget to wipe all the data from her phone when you're done," he adds. "Wouldn't want either of us getting in trouble for this.

They hang up before he can even ask how he's supposed to 'wipe data' from a phone.

Grudgingly, he sets the cursed device down and begins to clean up his mess.

* * *

Will texts Hannibal shortly after he hangs up, but Hannibal doesn't reply, which concerns him.

He isn't going to report him, but it would be nice to meet him. He seemed interesting enough.

But then, when Will's just about to go to bed (because he can't convince himself to get any actual work done; he's too goddamned excited), he gets a text back from the deceased Doctor Rippetoe's phone.

Will's hands are shaking as he hits the call button. _Is this guy an idiot?_  he thinks.  _He's gonna get caught. Oh, god. He might get_ me  _caught. I'm the one texting him! Aiding and abetting a criminal!_

Oh, this is  _not_ how he wants things to go down. He hasn't even gotten started with the fun stuff!

He takes a deep breath and the phone rings once, twice, three times. Hannibal picks up, sounding perfectly calm on the other end, just as he had before. 

"Hello."

His poncy, European accent hasn't changed, either. Will wonders if it's a fake. 

"Goddammit," Will growls, just barely remembering to throw on his own Louisianan accent. He doesn't want the guy recognizing his voice until they've met, especially if Hannibal is throwing him a false accent. "You don't know how to wipe the phone?"

"I wiped my fingerprints from it," Hannibal replies, as if that's even close to sufficient.

"Oh, because that's going to do you a  _whole_ lot of good when they know  _exactly_ where you live because you fucking brought the phone home with you after you--you know--"

"After I killed her?" Hannibal supplies.

"Fuck. Yeah." Will shakes his head and sighs. "Just, be more careful, okay? Snowden wasn't kidding when he said the NSA tracks phone calls. And texts. Not to mention that Google can pinpoint your device's exact location." Anxiously, he cracks his knuckles. He shouldn't be all that worked up about this, but he is. 

"I may have lied when I said I was home, if that's any consolation," Hannibal adds.

"Then where the fuck are you?" demands Will, hoping to the  _gods_ that this idiot isn't talking to him about this in a public space.

"I'm still disposing of the body."

A hiss escapes Will's lips, but he's slightly relieved. "Okay, okay. Worse comes to worse, they find where you buried her. You're sure they can't track you otherwise?"

"Positive." Hannibal still sounds ridiculously calm. Confident, even. "I'm quite good at what I do."

"Sure, yeah. Sure." Will groans and shakes his head one last time. "I'll see you tomorrow, you absolute fucking nutjob."

He doesn't mean the last part to be out loud, but he's exhausted and he doesn't care. He hasn't slept in two days, he  _still_ hasn't finished writing his essay about body toxicity levels across body types,  _and_ he's meeting a murderer.

And what he's guessing is a cocky, lousy one at that.

"Tomorrow," Hannibal replies, and Will's almost forgotten that they're still on the phone. "And may I ask that you refrain from further cussing?"

Will rolls his eyes and grunts. Of  _course,_ he's a prude, too.

"Sure as shit, boss."

Hannibal sighs and Will hangs up the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

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Will smiles, rolls his eyes, and puts his phone back on the nightstand. He could banter with Beverly all morning, and he would usually love to go creep out the creepy wannabe Santas (even though November has barely started and it's way too early to deal with Christmas decorations), but he has work.

And, he supposes, he has a murderer to meet. 

And it's not a date, no matter how desperately his friends think he needs to get laid. If they would just listen for five minutes, they'd get that it just wasn't his thing.

* * *

At ten twenty, a guy dressed like he's just walked out of an alternate universe's Vanity photoshoot strolls into the coffee shop. With dark blonde hair in his eyes, he glances over the shop with the same disdain Will would reserve for a 7-11 bathroom. Frowning, he pulls of his fancy-ass, double-breasted midnight-charcoal-whatever peacoat and looks around again, probably for a place to hang it. Then, likely realizing that there's no coat hanger in this dump, he drapes it (gracefully, of course) on his arm and approaches the counter.

Will has trouble believing he's actually going to order something, let alone tip, so he takes his time approaching him, pretending to be busy cleaning the foam wand. He gets another glance at the guy and realizes that he's (honest-to-god) wearing a maroon vest over a silvery button-up shirt.'

With  _cufflinks._

Will's been on shift since seven, he's kind of done with life, and Hannibal should be arriving any minute, so he isn't going to waste any more of his time ogling at an unattainable, attractive, and decidedly rich asshat. 

He takes a breath and walks up to the counter. Putting on his most obviously-contrived smile, he says, "Welcome to Blitz, coffee so strong it will give you the shits! What can I get you?"

The manager said he's not allowed to say that anymore, but it's totally worth it today. 

The guy just narrows his eyes.

"Can you make a decent _cappuccino?"_

Will's first instinct is to roll his eyes, but then he recognizes the accent and the voice and his stomach plummets.

Hannibal, the idiot on the phone who actually murdered Will's not-psychiatrist, is a gorgeous, rich prick who prefers to show off and says cappuccino with the perfect rolling accent instead of asking for a goddamned glass of syrupy foam and bean juice like every other decent human on the planet.

And Will just used the shits line on him.

_Oh, goody._

If he's gone this far, he might as well go all the way and make a total idiot of himself, then.

The guy--Hannibal--flares his nostrils slightly. "I'll take that as a no, then."

Will raises his eyebrows. "Oh, no, pal. I make the best cappuccinoon the block--and that's not just because we're the only shop on the block, let me tell you!"

Grimacing, likely at the use of the word 'pal' (because he's obviously just that kind of guy), Hannibal says, "Fine. One  _cappuccino,_ whole milk, not decaf. And, yes, I  _will_ be able to tell the difference if you do otherwise, so don't try and be funny."

Playing over the sentence in his head, but in the voice of Mickey Mouse, Will writes the order details on a paper cup, not even going to argue that whole milk makes shitty foam. 

"Okay, got it. I won't _try_ and be funny. Do you have a name, or do I just write 'coffee snob?'"

"I'm sorry?" Hannibal blinks, clearly thrown off. "You need my name?"

Will smirks and taps the sharpie against the cup. "Sorry, man. Policy. I gotta write a name. If you don't give it to be, I'll just write 'coffee snob' and call it a day."

Lip curling, he says, shortly, "My name is Hannibal."

He doesn't know if he's delighted or mortified that this guy really is the same weirdo he talked to on the phone last night.

"Cool," he says. "Like the elephant guy? How do you spell that?"

He sighs and looks like he's about to pinch the bridge of his nose. "H-A-N-N-I-"

Feeling particularly wicked, Will interrupts him. "Sorry, pal, not gonna work."

"Excuse me?" Now he just looks pissed.

"Look, I know it's weird, but I've got this thing--it's like dyslexia, but with my ears, so, like, you're gonna have to just find another way to tell me how to spell it if you want me to get it right."

Will's very good at suppressing his emotions (one of the benefits of working in the food industry), and so he doesn't have to work hard to not bust up laughing when Hannibal looks like he's deciding whether or not he wants to put Will on his kill list.

He wonders what it takes to get on that list, if Hannibal has one at all.

Reluctantly, slowly, like he's talking to a toddler, he says, "It's spelled like _cannibal_ , but with an  _h._ Can you spell cannibal?"

"Oh, sure thing. Cannibal with an  _h."_ He bites the inside of his cheek, so glad that Hannibal said exactly what he wanted him to, now actively trying not to grin. 

He writes  _Channibal_ on the cup hastily and sets it by the espresso machine, practically gnawing at his own flesh to fight his own laughter.

"That will be two-fifty," he says, unable to look at him. "Your drink will be ready in a minute, Hannibal!"

Hannibal takes a deep breath, leaves a five dollar bill on the counter, and retreats to a table in the far corner of the room, facing the doorway. He anxiously watches out the window and ignores the babysitter with three little kids a few tables away from him. 

No one comes inside; ten thirty on a Saturday isn't always this empty, but it's not that weird, either. It's a college town; anyone with any sense or social life (not Will) would be sleeping in.

Well, it's not ten-thirty yet. Hannibal's early, and Will's shift doesn't end until then. Plus, Will's replacement, Franklyn, is always a little late, so the guy's just gonna have to wait and pay the price for being an early dickhead.

Will makes the drink in just a few minutes, and when it's ready, he calls out Hannibal's name much louder than necessary. The babysitter gives him an angry look, and he realizes that she's  _definitely_ hungover. And with three kids yanking at her, he's not surprised she's feeling murderous, too.

He mouths an apology at her as Hannibal comes to retrieve his drink, stiff as a board.

"Thank you," he grits, snatching the coffee off of the counter. He spins on his heel, like a total drama queen (and now Will really isn't surprised that he killed Doctor Rippetoe, because sheesh, what an attitude) and returns to his table, checking his watch.

Still mischievous, Will calls to him, "My shift will be over in just a few minutes, handsome!"

At that, Hannibal rolls his eyes. Then, looks at the drink and sees  _Channibal_ written on it. He shoots Will the dirtiest of all death-glares, and before he tastes the drink and throws a hissy fit over the fact that it's decaf, soy, and pumped with with a truckload of hazelnut syrup, Will slips into the back.

His shift is officially over, after all, and Franklyn can deal with the lousy customers.

Except, Will realizes as soon has he's in the back, Hannibal is  _his_ lousy customer, and he has to deal with him. Maybe for the rest of the day.

If Hannibal doesn't try to kill him first, that is.

Realizing his major mistake, he pulls out his phone to contact the only people he can trust in a situation like this: Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price.

And, to be honest, he can't really trust them at all, but he's panicking and they're his only friends besides Beverly (and he does  _not_ want to deal with her mocking him about this being a 'date').

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Will closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and doesn't feel at all comforted, but he pulls off his apron and exits the back door of the coffee shop.

* * *

Hannibal doesn't even drink the coffee he ordered. He can smell that the imbecile from behind the counter had deliberately ruined it--likely out of spite, though he hasn't the faintest idea what he did to deserve it.

He's seething, but he keeps it in check. He's already had one act of unplanned violence, and he doesn't need another one.

Still, it's almost ten forty, and 'grammie' hasn't shown up yet. Hannibal is starting to wonder if he's been stood up, which doesn't make any sense, considering it was the person on the phone who insisted that they meet.

He glances out the window again, only to see that wretched barista walk by it. His shift over, Hannibal expects him to walk right by and leave, but instead he reenters through the front door. Running a hand through his mass of dark curls, he steps into the shop again, grinning malevolently as he makes a beeline towards Hannibal.

Tempted to throw the hot coffee at him, Hannibal wonders why the fates have chosen to test his patience now.

The barista sits down across from him, grinning.

"You can't sit there," Hannibal tells him, clenching his jaw. "I'm expecting someone."

The man pulls a face, crosses his legs, and leans against the window in a languorous pose. "I _can't sit here?_ What is this, high school?"

"You're certainly acting like it," Hannibal spits. "I've never encountered such juvenile behavior."

"I don't think you know the meaning of the word."

Hannibal leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. If this fool wants to trade barbs, then so be it.

"You'll find that my vocabulary is extensive, likely more so than yours. And English is my third language."

The man--no,  _boy--_ raises his eyebrows mockingly. "Ooh! Rich, intellectual,  _and_ boastful. You're sure a keeper, _Channibal_."

"More so than you might imagine," he growls. "But tell me, what's _your_ name? I might just want to get a hold of you at a later date. Do you have a card?"

The boy turns in his chair so he faces Hannibal directly, leaning forward so that he mirrors his position.

"Sadly, baristas don't really get business cards," he hums. His voice easily slipping into a throaty Southern accent, he adds, "But even if we did, I wouldn't want to give it to you. I have a feeling you'd track me down and kill me." 

His eyes light up as he says it, and Hannibal realizes that this is the first time he's made eye contact with him.

Stunningly blue, he notes, but that doesn't distract from the fact that suddenly he's  _very_ upset.

"You're 'grammie?'" he demands, his voice a low whisper.

The barista snorts, his face lighting up with amusement.

"I'm  _what?"_ he laughs.

Hannibal's throat tightens. He couldn't have mistaken the voice, but he supposes that his serious tone did not befit the name he used. 

"It was the only name in the contact." He keeps his tone clipped, doing his best to not embarrass himself further. Their conversation from the previous night did enough of that.

Gaping, 'grammie,' or whatever  _else_ his real name is, blinks. "That woman is a trip," he mutters.

Hannibal clears his throat. "Was."

Biting his lip, the barista remains amused. "And whose fault is that?"

About to admonish him, Hannibal is forced to remain silent when the door opens. A stubby man of a similar age to himself shuffles in, hastily tying an apron around his waist. His eyes glance nervously towards Hannibal, and presumably at the barista.

"Sorry I'm late, Will!" he squeaks.

The barista, whose name is evidently Will, rolls his eyes, but turns to smile at the man. "No problem, Frankie."

"It's Franklyn!" he protests, darting behind the counter.

Will shrugs and looks at Hannibal. "Should we head outside?" he asks, nodding towards the window.

Hannibal smirks, feeling that he has power, now, in knowing his name.

"Of course, Will."

Will gets up first, and holds the door for him in ersatz regard. Hannibal is about to walk through, shrugging on his coat, when Will lets go and the door slams into his face.

He takes a moment to recenter himself before he opens the door and exits with as much grace as he can muster.

He already felt humiliated last night for his lack of repartee. Now, despite his honorable grace and witticisms from the morning so far, he doesn't feel redeemed.

Will waits for him on the sidewalk, facing the road, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a worn, puffy black vest. He wears a red and gray flannel underneath that, just as worn out as the vest.

Hannibal stands next to him, regarding him closely.

"I would offer a peace treaty, but I suspect that proverbial ball is in your court."

Will grins. "Now you're getting it." He jerks his head in the direction that the sidewalk leads. "Walk with me."

Hannibal doesn't respond verbally, and instead starts walking. He's minutely satisfied to see that Will, slightly shorter than he, has to struggle to keep up with his long strides.

Unperturbed, however, Will presses on.

"Now, I get that I've pissed you of," he says, clearly pleased with himself, "but I want you to know that if you do plan to murder me in an alleyway, I will 'accidentally' buttdial the cops like you buttdialed me last night."

Hannibal, chagrined, huffs. "I did not _buttdial_ you."

"Do you even know  _how_ you called me?" Will asks, raising an eyebrow.

Reluctant to admit that he doesn't, Hannibal loosely evades the question.

"I prefer to avoid technology at all costs, for this precise reason."

"Oh, you mean you don't want to meet charming partners in crime?"

Hannibal shoots him a dark look. "Charming isn't the word I'd use," he spits. "And I'd hardly call us partners."

Will shrugs, still grinning. "I don't think you're the one calling the shots, buster."

"That's right," Hannibal sighs. "You could turn me in."

"If you don't kill me first."

"You sound terribly nonchalant about that."

Will steps off the sidewalk to cross the street, kicking a rock casually as he does so. "Life sucks," he replies. "I don't really care if I live or die or whatever."

Hannibal follows after him, a frown forming. Will isn't exactly what he would call a textbook sufferer of depression. The casual indifference regarding life or death doesn't suit him, or at least the persona Hannibal has assigned to him thus far.

"Do you place that mindset onto your victims, Will?"

Will practically hops back onto the sidewalk, casting a a muddled look at him. "First, that sounds like a weirdly psychological question. Second, there  _are_ no victims."

Curiosity blooms in Hannibal, despite everything. He feels closer to figuring Will out. Eagerly, he says, "Then death is your gift to them. You don't see them as victims because they haven't suffered."

Will's look turns perplexed, perhaps slightly condescending (though Hannibal hardly sees how Will would have the right to look down on  _him)._

"I haven't killed anyone, Hannibal."

And with that, his step falters.

He feels disappointed, more than anything. Despite Will being an atrocious barista and having an blatantly rude attitude, Hannibal had hoped that he was a kindred spirit.

"You haven't?" he asks, hearing the deflation in his own voice.

Will stops walking and turns to him. 

"No," he says, raising an eyebrow. "What made you think I had?"

Hannibal almost expects to be unable to form words, with the nonsensical amount of confusion gathering within him, but he is perfectly capable of speech (thankfully).

"Your insouciance regarding my actions, primarily," he mutters, his gaze now downcast. "I thought your words implied a shared camaraderie."

Will grins and elbows him in the side.

"So you're a softie after all," he chuckles.

Hannibal purses his lips, straightens himself, and continues walking. Now, Will follows him. 

"I'm not  _soft,"_ he insists. "I had merely anticipated to discover a kindred spirit."

A bark of laughter peals from Will. "Hannibal," he says, "I heard you strangle my not-psychiatrist over the phone and I didn't do jack shit, and now we're talking about it with the same level of concern that two closet nerds would use when confessing they both play World of Warcraft until three in the morning. Isn't that good enough for you?"

Sharply, Hannibal glares at him.

"What do you want from me?" he snaps. "Do you consider me some sort of pet? You  _do_ realize that I'm terribly dangerous, don't you?"

"I also realize that you're lonely, inexperienced, and still figuring shit out." 

Hannibal can't help but feel jarred by the comment, and Will laughs again.

"Look," he says, "I peg your kill count at five. Which, admittedly, is a lot, compared to most people, but you've got a streak that says you're planning much bigger things."

"And this ensures your safety how?"

"I can read people, Hannibal. I get into their heads. Hell, I'm already six feet under in yours."

He chuckles at his own joke, but Hannibal barely regards the pun. 

"Okay, not funny." Will lets out a melodramatic sigh. "But, my point remains. I could be of use to you."

"And why would you want that?" Hannibal demands. "If not a killer, then you're a man with morals. Why would you get involved with me?"

"You're reasonable," he replies, glancing him over. "And just because I _haven't_ killed doesn't mean I'm not a killer. I just haven't had the opportunity yet."

Hannibal hums, nodding. "You want a mentor, then."

Will scoffs, an indignant thing. "A mentor? Fuck, man, I bet you're younger than I am. I'm not calling you a mentor."

"I sincerely doubt you're my elder."

"Yeah? How old are you?"

It's a childish game, but Hannibal isn't compelled to lose. "Twenty-two," he says, in full honesty. "I should be finishing my bachelor's degree this year."

"Well, golly gee." Will gives him a humorous side-eye. "I'm in the same boat, it looks like."

Before he can stop himself, Hannibal says, "Your birthdate?"

"November eighteenth, 1995."

Hannibal smirks; he  _is_ older than Will, even if by just a handful of months. "May fourth, 1995," he replies, feeling quite smug.

"Dammit," Will hisses, barely under his breath. 

"So, I  _could_ be your mentor."

Will laughs. "If that's an offer, sure. But I'm not calling you that."

"Then what will you call me?" 

Winking, Will pushes ahead to cross the next street. "We're partners in crime, I think."

Hannibal rolls his eyes, but he follows after Will anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't seem to find either of their canon birthdates, so Hannibal is a Taurus and will is a Scorpio. It just made sense to me :p
> 
> And they're so young, you'll have to excuse the fact that they've barely got their murderous selves together.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where exactly are you taking us, Will?"

Will's been leading Hannibal steadily into the downtown area for the past twenty minutes, and the moody murderer hasn't questioned it until now, which makes Will feel pretty good about himself.

Still, he doesn't feel like it would be a good idea to dodge the question after it's been asked.

"I'm taking you to get a phone," he says, matter-of-factly. 

Hannibal, for at least the second time today, splutters, which also makes Will feel good about himself. The ability to derail a la-di-da and well-to-do serial killer without getting stabbed should be something he can put on his résumé.

Idly, he bets it actually would be good on his résumé, considering his intended career path, but that might get tricky.

"You're  _what?"_

Rolling his eyes, Will says, "Oh, don't give me that. You can afford it. Your shoes probably cost as more than the average two-year data plan."

"Money is not my concern," he replies, unsurprisingly stiff. "Wasn't it you who pointed out the dangers of carrying a cellular device? With tracking and monitoring and what not."

"Well, sure, it's dangerous if you're  _careless,_ which I'm starting to think you are." Will raises a hand to start counting on his fingers. "Second degree murder, buttdialing, not wiping the phone--"

"I wiped the phone," Hannibal says, bitterly.

"When did you figure out how to do that?"

"I used the search function on the device, which surprisingly led me to an article. I hadn't realized that it would allow me to access information on how to destroy it."

Will just blinks at him. He isn't sure whether he's kidding or not.

"Remarkably," Hannibal continues, "I found that there was a settings panel that allowed me to alter the device. I was able to reset it, leaving it completely blank." He frowns, then, glancing nervously at Will. "However, because I was not entirely sure of the legitimacy of a built-in self-destruct button, I decided to crush the entire device with my heel and burn it." He glances down at his hands. "I find that doing things the old fashioned way are often the most efficient."

Only capable of gaping at him for several moments, Will tries to process this.

"You... you didn't trust that the phone would  _let_ you wipe it?"

"Of course not," Hannibal replies. "No self-aware entity would possibly allow that to happen. So, I destroyed it manually."

"Jesus fuck," Will mutters, thinking that he's going to be saying a lot of that around this guy. "There's no self aware technology, Hannibal! Phones are just...programmed."

"And surely they have been programmed to protect their own existence."

"Oh my god." Will stares at him incredulously. "Humans program phones, Hannibal. They're programmed to make things easier for humans. It's not some sort of fucking symbiotic relationship--they're just tools!" 

"Extremely intelligent tools," Hannibal adds. "Their capabilities create a potential for danger."

"Did you just fucking walk out of a Ray Bradbury story?"

Hannibal looks straight ahead and shrugs. "While I find Bradbury's works to be of the more enlightened end of science fiction, I don't think I've adapted the mindset of any of his characters."

Will shakes his head, incredulous. "You're a full-blown technophobe, is what you are."

"I'm simply cautious."

Will gives him his best  _what the fuck_ face and then rubs at his eyes. "If you were cautious, you'd have a Tor browser or a VPN and you'd only take your phone with you where you wanted to be found. Avoiding technology is just--Jesus. Have you ever even used the Internet?"

Hannibal scoffs. "Of course I've used the Internet, Will. I simply refrain from using it whenever possible."

"God help you," Will mutters. "I've got to fix this. I can't let you live your life like a paranoid baby boomer." 

He's sure that Hannibal's a smart guy (or at least he better be), but he could really use some education as far as the twenty first century goes. Will doesn't even know how he's  _survived_ this long.

Can you even do anything without a cell phone anymore?

He's pretty sure that he had to use email to apply to college, too.

Does Hannibal even have email?

He doesn't want to think about it. He can see the same building where he got his new phone last year. He'll just drag Hannibal in there and hope that he doesn't make a total fool out of them both.

* * *

Will takes Hannibal to something called the 'Verizon' store, which sounds more like a surreal fantasy world than a cellular provider. The building, however, is bland and decidedly corporeal, smelling strongly of hand sanitizer and silicone.

After a sixty-two year old employee named Brenda gives Hannibal a rundown on the "Cloud" at Will's request, they select a phone for Hannibal and set up a "data plan." Brenda suggests a fifteen gigabyte plan, which makes Will gape.

Glancing at Hannibal, he says, "Money's not an issue for you, so go for it. Enjoy streaming YouTube videos without wifi, I guess." 

"Is that what I'll be doing?" Hannibal queries, passing his debit card over to Brenda. He refuses to use credit cards; they're so much more expensive in the end, with interest rates and the like. Besides, he has enough money to not have to need to pay at a later date.

Will eyes the black card curiously, and says, "Depends. We'll figure out your app usage once this gets set up." 

Brenda completes the creation of Hannibal's data plan and the purchase of the phone itself. She insists he also purchase a case and a screen protector, and Hannibal can't see the harm in going further, now that he's already made the plunge into the world of technology. He might as well make sure no damage comes to the damned thing; after all, it could develop a vengeful attitude should his own carelessness bring it any harm, and he doesn't want to be on the phone's bad side.

With fifteen hundred less dollars and a surprisingly minimal amount of apprehension once the ordeal is over, Hannibal follows Will back out onto the street.

"Where to next?" he asks, with only a minor sigh.

Will smiles at him, looking slightly drained. His shoulders are hunched over, but a resilience is in his expression that Hannibal can't help but admire.

"Well, since we don't really have to worry about needing wifi, I thought we could go to the park to set up the rest of your phone. Good cell reception there." He's already begun walking in the direction of Whitehaven Park.

"We haven't finished yet?"

Will turns his head to cast him a devilish grin. "Hell no, Bradbury. We've got apps to download, social media profiles to create--"

Hannibal cuts him off before he gets any more ideas. "I never agreed to engaging in social media," he snaps, lifting his chin slightly in defiance. 

"Ah." Will raises his eyebrows. "You know what that is, then?"

"Of course I'm aware of social media, Will."

"But you've never used it," he says, hopping off the curb onto the road so they can dart across the street. 

"Of course not." He frowns. "You're not the first person to attempt to persuade me, however."

Will smirks and points at the paper bag Hannibal is carrying. "I think I've gotten further than anyone else, though," he jeers. "Can't hurt to push my luck some more."

It could very well hurt, Hannibal thinks, but Will certainly knows that, and he decides not to press it. Will seems to have a stronger hold on this situation than he does, after all. 

The park is about a mile from them. The two of them are mostly silent, though Will occasionally speaks up to comment on their surroundings. It's mostly mundane, and Hannibal doesn't feel compelled to answer.

"Sky kind of looks like a dome today. Autumn's nice like that, don't you think? Everything is so much richer."

"God, is it just me, or are there way too many mini vans parked on this street? This isn't usually a minivan street."

"I've counted twelve ravens so far. Think that's a lot?"

"Oh, shit. That breeder is still here? I swear to god, if I report them for their shitty practices again and the county still doesn't intervene, I'm going to break in and get all the dogs out myself."

The last comment intrigues Hannibal; he can't help but raise an eyebrow. He glances at the building next to them. It looks like an ordinary house or perhaps a low-end dentistry practice. The blinds on all the windows are shut, and a sign posted on the front lawn.

_Hadley's Purebred Pups_

"Do you often try and foil subpar dog breeding businesses?" he asks. 

Will snorts. "Subpar's not the word. They're all shit--just puppy mills with a pretty exterior." A grimace lays thick on his face, and he is visibly more rigid.

Hannibal's lip quirks, fighting to smile, but he doesn't let it. Despite that, he's amused, and asks, "Are you a dog lover, Will?" 

The question seems to give him pause.

"Never had a dog," he confesses, looking almost sheepish. "But I'm still a decent person, and it's beyond fucked to breed animals until they're too inbred to breathe, only to keep them in cramped cages and sell them at exorbitant prices to the parents of twelve-year-old snot rags."

"You can excuse murder, but you draw the line at animal abuse?"

Will glances at him, smirking.

"People are shitty. Animals don't deserve to be treated badly."

Hannibal can agree with that.

When they arrive at the park, Will is suddenly much more quiet. It's crowded, being a weekend, and he keeps his head ducked. Hannibal watches as he seems to try and make himself invisible, only slightly more relaxed when they find a secluded bench to sit on.

The maple tree above them has already gone entirely scarlet, and despite the amount of leaves scattering the ground, it's still quite full. Hannibal sets the bag with his new phone next to him and stares up at the leaves, his head back.

He allows himself to relax.

Will isn't so at ease, however. He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes darting from person to person filling the park. His gaze lingers on each for a number of seconds before moving on, as if appraising them.

He had said he could get into people's heads; Hannibal wonders if this has something to do with that.

After a few minutes, Will shakes his head and sighs. "It's boring here today," he says, lip twitching. "I guess we should start setting up your phone."

Hannibal sighs, and agrees. He watches as Will opens up the phone.

"First we're making sure it's locked so no one can fuck with it," he says, and taps the settings icon, which Hannibal recalls using when he was left with Doctor Rippetoe's phone. After tapping around some more, Will passes the phone to him. "Put your thumb on the home button."

Hannibal takes it. "The round one?" 

"Yes." Will rolls his eyes. 

Hannibal does as told, and nearly jolts in surprise when he sees his own fingerprint displayed on the screen. 

"I've come to think that the collection of fingerprints is to be avoided," he says, frowning.

"In this case, it's useful," Will says. "Only you can get onto it now. Just let it scan the print at a few more angles and then you're golden."

Having reached the point where it would be pointless to argue, Hannibal does as told. He hands the phone back to Will when he's done. "Now what?"

Will shrugs. "I can add my print."

"You want unlimited access to the device as well?"

"It's only fair." He quickly adds it before an objection can be made.

Hannibal allows it, only because he hopes he can figure out how to remove Will's print at a later time.

They continue on. Will helps him set up an account with Apple so that Hannibal can purchase applications from the App Store, and by the time they're done with that, his tongue is practically heavy from the overuse of the syllable "app." They use the email Hannibal created to placate the school's demands. He's only ever used it on the computers at the library.

Hannibal mostly watches the rest of the process. Will downloads a VPN, an app for a Tor browser that he assures is "entirely legit", a few social media apps that he promises to sign Hannibal for up later, and a number of other 'tools' that Hannibal has yet to discern the uses of.

Before he's done, he opens up the application that serves as a contact book, and then turns away from Hannibal.

"What are you doing?" he asks, pursing his lips.

Will just grins and types into the phone. After a minute, he hands it back, a new contact created.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows.

"Graham?" he asks, glancing at the name entered on the screen. It's written in all caps, followed by a knife icon ( _emoji_ , he reminds himself bitterly). He wonders if he can change that or if it's stuck that way.

There's also a photo of Will's face, capturing the grin he'd made when he was making the contact.

"Yup," Will replies. "My last name. Most people prefer to call my by it."

Hannibal sets the phone down. "I think I personally prefer 'Will.'"

"Suit yourself." Will shrugs and then leans back on the bench. "I guess I wouldn't call you 'Lecter.'"

"How do you know my surname?"

"Buddy." Will laughs and glances at him from the corner of his eye. "You had to provide your ID and your credit card at the store,  _plus_ I helped you enter all your information into your phone. I picked up on 'Lecter." He grins (an expression Hannibal thinks he's beginning to enjoy, despite it usually meaning his ego is about to be poked at), and says, "It's a little to pretentious to let slide by."

"It's an esteemed name, Will."

"My point exactly." 

They sit in silence for a few moments longer. Hannibal takes the time to appreciate the breeze sifting through the leaves above and the crispness in the air. It's afternoon by now, and the park is still filled with people.

Will watches them all with a trained and wary eye. Hannibal wants to ask about it, ask what he sees, but doesn't get the chance. Will clears his throat and speaks before he does.

"I should get going." He raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Papers to write, evil breeders to report. All that." He looks over at Hannibal, and there's a rare and brief moment of eye contact. "I'll see you later."

Hannibal smiles before he can stop himself.

"You can text me now. Let me know when 'later' is."

Will's smile is slight as he gets up and walks away.

Hannibal watches him go, leaned back into the bench and more relaxed than he would have thought. Curiosity tickles at him, and he wonders what will become of his time spent with Will Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked this chapter!!
> 
> i'm not editing it bc frankly i'm not totally sober rn and i need to update and yeah enjoy,, typing is hard. have a wonderful day/evening/wahtever


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, lock screen generators apparently aren't a thing. Bummer.

Hannibal knows that Doctor Rippetoe won't be able to attend her own lecture Monday morning, but he shows up to the classroom on time anyway. The doors are locked, so he sits at one of the benches near the door, the picture of innocence.

No other students are at the door; Hannibal assumes that a notification was sent out that alerted the students of her absence. By now, the doctor's disappearance has likely been reported. Despite Will's recent interferences, Hannibal has not checked his email to determine if any such notification was sent out, and everyone he associates with will know that he wouldn't check until his daily afternoon trip to the library.

Five minutes past the typical lecture time, Alana Bloom approaches.

Wrapped in a well-fitting turquoise coat, her hands are stuffed in her pockets. Her usual book bag is absent from its place hanging from her shoulder, and a wry expression covers her face.

"I thought you'd be here," she says as she approaches him. 

Hannibal remains seated on the bench. "Why wouldn't I be?" he inquires. "Class should have started by now."

Alana purses her lips and hovers in front of him. "Well, it won't be," she sighs. "Doctor Rippetoe was reported missing yesterday. No one's seen her since her last class on Friday."

The feigned look of horror on Hannibal's face is easily summoned, and Alana is convinced by it.

"That's... dreadful," he says, rising to his feet. "Is there any word as to what might have happened?"

Alana shrugs. "The buzz is that the police haven't been able to find anything yet. Things aren't looking so good." She sighs and nods her head towards the other end of campus. "Best we can do is carry on as usual--or try. I thought I'd find you and we could study at the library. Be productive."

"Unlike our classmates?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Unlike our classmates," she confirms.

They walk to the library in a comfortable silence. Alana is one of the few people he considers a friend. They have been close since their freshman year, having both been dedicated students and adamant in their pursuits of study.

Both psychology majors, they had found themselves working together quite frequently. The majority of their peers were not so levelheaded as they, and thus they had developed a steady companionship.

They rarely spent time together outside of class and schoolwork, if ever, but Hannibal considers Alana a friend.

He is pulled from his thoughts as they approach the library, when the phone he's nearly forgotten he carries now lets out a loud barking sound. He jumps from the surprise, and quickly reaches into his pocket to see what it is.

A notification lights up the lock screen.

He keeps his expression neutral when he sees it, fully aware that Alana is looking over his shoulder and he hasn't yet changed Will's contact name. When he does, he'll also have to figure out how to make it so that the phone doesn't bark every time Will texts him.

He knows that Will made it do that purely because he's never heard that happen on anyone else's phone.

Sighing, he glances up at Alana. "I'll meet you inside," he says.

She raises her eyebrows, clearly perplexed, but retreats into the library anyways.

Hannibal stands out front for a few moments to text Will back. He's jarred when he responds because the phone barks again.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152228013@N04/36086483926/in/dateposted-public/)

Hannibal glances up for a moment, wondering what Will could want. They haven't exactly established their relationship, after all, and Hannibal isn't entirely sure what Will wants from him.

A partner, he said, but for what? 

He supposes the only way to find out will be to see him again.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152228013@N04/35295717854/in/dateposted-public/)

Hannibal bites his lip and places the phone back in his pocket, moving to enter the library and join Alana. She waits for him at their usual table, where her girlfriend, Freddie, is also sat. Presumably, she was the one safeguarding Alana's bag.

Freddie doesn't even look up at him as he sits down. She's engrossed in her latest project; as a journalism major, she always has her nose somewhere new. He indiscreetly takes a look at her laptop screen, raising his eyebrows as he sees that a photo of a shirtless older man takes up most of it.

Alana smiles at him. "Freddie's exposing a congressman's sexual delinquency," she says, too cheerily.

"Ah." Hannibal nods and sets his satchel down beside him. The phone in his pocket feels heavy, and he wonders if Alana will patronize him for what she saw. Will she think that he's lost his integrity?

Freddie makes a grunting sound, breaking his train of thought. She begins tapping at the keyboard aggressively. "Congressman Jamison is going to regret every sexist remark to ever come out of his wrinkly old mouth." 

"He will, with all the secrets you dig up," Alana says, smiling fondly. Turning to Hannibal, her expression turns nearly unreadable as she raises an eyebrow. "Got any secrets of your own, Hannibal?" 

Hannibal wears an indifferent expression. "None you should be concerned with," he replies evenly.

Alana hums and makes a show of searching through her well-organized notes. "Too bad," she says. "No secret reason you suddenly have a phone, then?" 

He meets her pointed gaze steadily. 

"Everyone carries a phone, Alana."

"Not you," she says, tilting her head.

Freddie laughs and jerks her head to look at them, her curls bouncing with the motion. "Definitely not," she says. "Put together, I'm not sure which would be the anachronism--you or the cell phone."

Hannibal huffs and retrieves his notepad from his satchel. Hopefully, if he begins working on his essay, the girls will leave him alone.

"Probably Hannibal," Alana replies, and leans closer to him. "I mean, look at you! You do your assignments by hand still."

He rolls his eyes. As much as he tries to practice keeping a blank expression, it's hard when he's being ribbed like this. 

"Wonder what it would take to get him to abandon his Amish lifestyle," Freddie purrs, elbowing him.

"For the last time," Hannibal growls, "I'm not Amish."

Freddie laughs, a sharp sound, throwing her head back. "Still. What's with the phone, Lecter?"

Alana grins. "Does Graham with four emojis have anything to do with it?"

Hannibal takes a deep breath and attempts to formulate the sentence he needs to write on the page. If he ignores them, they'll give up.

"You didn't mention the emojis!" Freddie gasps. "What were they?" She turns on Hannibal, grabbing his wrist. "Tell me about your first emojis, Hannibal!"

He slaps her hand away, but gives up on writing. He looks up at both of them.

"I wasn't the one who entered them," he says.

"And you weren't the one who set the text tone to barking dogs?" Alana presses, folding her arms on the table.

"Dogs?" Freddie snorts.

Hannibal groans and buries his face in his hands. He's beyond mortified. Are they really questioning his character so?

"No, it wasn't me."

"So, it was Graham, then." Alana continues to look poised, but there's a mischief there that cannot be mistaken. 

"Who's this Graham guy, anyway?" Freddie asks, not nearly as collected. She looks positively wicked, dripping with morbid curiosity. "I find it  _very_ interesting that he's the one to convince you to get a phone after Alana's been pressing you for the past three years."

Alana hums in agreement.

"Who says he convinced me?" Hannibal demands, unsure which one he should glare at.

Freddie blinks, unconvinced. "In what world would Hannibal 'The-Internet-Holds-The-Key-To-Destroying-Humanity' Lecter buy a cell phone?" 

"Just tell us about the guy, Hannibal," Alana sighs. "I thought we were close enough friends that you wouldn't try and hide this from me."

Freddie nods, silent for once. She, at the very least, knows her place well enough to not suggest that she's as close to Hannibal as Alana is. She can jest and jab all she wants, but she is not the one who Hannibal  _should_ tell anything.

And while social norms might suggest that Hannibal  _should_ tell Alana, who is in all rights his best friend, about Will, he doesn't think that social norms apply in this particular situation.

Will isn't a romantic interest like she and Freddie seem to believe. Will is technically to Hannibal, in his murder of Doctor Rippetoe, something that social norms cannot dictate--something that neither Alana nor Freddie can know about.

But they will continue to bother him about it if he doesn't come up with something. He decides to throw them a bone.

"I met him at a coffee shop," he answers, his tone heavily begrudged. "He was unbearable and deliberately ruined my order."

Freddie lets out a bark of laughter, and Alana's eyes go wide.

"Of course you'd fall for the asshole act," Freddie titters. She closes her laptop and focuses on Hannibal, scandalous congressman long forgotten. 

"I haven't fallen for anything," he snaps.

Alana, too, is paying all of her attention to him. She looks terribly pleased. "Then please explain the situation, Hannibal."

He groans. There's really no good way to explain any of this, is there?

Is he actually going to have to tell them Will is a romantic interest of his?

He supposes that what little regard they had for him was thrown to the wind when Alana saw that Hannibal was using a cell phone, and gives up on maintaining his dignity.

Besides--painting Will as a new beau could be convenient. Should he continue as Hannibal's accomplice, a ruse might be necessary to distract Alana and anyone else from suspicious activities.

It would serve as a distraction, and could even be entertaining.

With a sigh, he says, "His name is Will, not Graham. That would be his surname."

Alana blinks. "Will Graham?" she repeats, apparently confused. "I know that name."

"Do you?" Hannibal asks. He can't imagine how she would, but is all the more interested because of that.

"Yes." Alana frowns. "Doctor Rippetoe mentioned him, I think." She snaps her fingers and nods. "He's involved with the FBI, isn't he?"

It barely takes a second for Hannibal's blood to run cold.

"He hadn't mentioned that."

Freddie tilts her head. "He's some sort of whiz kid, right? Youngest person enrolled at the academy or something."

Hannibal's head is suddenly very light.

"How do you know that?"

"He was in the paper a few weeks back. He helped catch that freak that was turning people into mushroom gardens," Freddie explains, her face twisting into a scowl. "Disgusting story. God, I wish I had been the one to cover it." She shakes her head wryly. "But, yeah. Will Graham. Pretty sure he was the guy. Do you want me to look it up?"

Hannibal shakes his head. "No, thank you."

Alana gives him a look, one that he recognizes as veiled concern. Before she asks what's wrong, he gives her an answer.

"I thought he was just a student who made terrible coffee to make ends meet." He manages to sound lighter than he feels. "I suppose I have more to determine about Will Graham."

He slides a hand into his pocket to grip the phone.

He imagines that his hand is around Will's throat instead, squeezing the truth from him.

That thought doesn't last long, though. Hannibal doesn't like being lied to, but it's not in his interest to jump to conclusions. He's already gotten himself into trouble with Will Graham.

If Will plans to get him arrested, the wheels are likely already turning. The worst thing he could possibly do is try and harm Will with the FBI watching him.

He doesn't spend much longer with Alana and Freddie, and they don't press him further. He pretends to focus on writing his essay, but his mind is elsewhere, and it drifts further once he's out of the library and in fresh air. 

What game is Will trying to play?

* * *

Will waits for Hannibal, sat on the grass in front of the water surrounding the fountain. The sun is low in the sky, and everything looks warm with the rich light of the sinking sun. It hasn't quite reached the horizon yet, but it will in another hour or so.

The park closes in an hour, but Will doesn't think he and Hannibal will want to stick around that long anyway. The gardens here are pleasant, a nice place to meet, but they're too manicured for Will's tastes. They're a reprieve from the city, at least, but nothing compared to the wild beauty of the forests.

He fiddles with the hem of his jeans, crosslegged and getting wet from the damp lawn. He doesn't mind that much; cold as it is, he's known worse. Winter isn't even close yet, and he can handle a little autumn chill.

Hannibal arrives perfectly on time, though Will had expected him earlier. That's why he had been there for nearly a half hour himself already.

He's dressed similarly to how he was on Saturday, but his vest this time is a beige color. He wears cobalt blue tie with a loud pink floral pattern beneath it to make up for the lack of color elsewhere in his outfit.

He meets Will's eyes as he approaches, and Will is quick to look back down at his hands, still fiddling. He glances back up again, quickly, to see that Hannibal wears a flat affect.

Discomfort seems to ride off of him in waves, however, despite everything about his posture and expression being neutral. 

He stops just short of standing in front of Will, and takes a moment to regard the fountain. 

"It's beautiful here," he says, his tone mild. "This is not my first visit; I enjoy the stonework. I'm assuming this is just a rendezvous location, however?"

Will remains seated, but looks up at him, focusing on his chin.

"Depends what you want," he replies. "This place is a little to trim and prim for me, but I thought you'd like it."

Hannibal looks down at him, smiling faintly. "I actually live quite close by," he says. "I can always return another time. Unless, of course, you plan to have me imprisoned soon."

Will can't help but startle at that. He scratches at the back of his head.

"What do you mean?"

Shrugging, Hannibal says, "I don't know, Will. You're the one who neglected to tell me about your affiliation with the FBI, and you're the one who has withheld the nature of our meeting tonight."

He meets Will's eyes again, but there's nothing malicious in his gaze. Will, despite his usual abilities, can't sense any anger there.

Hannibal seems perfectly calm.

Will's first reaction is to demand how Hannibal found out, but he doesn't want to give him the wrong idea.

In all honesty, he had forgotten that Hannibal might take issue with his course of study. In hindsight, he guesses it is pretty suspicious. He hadn't even thought about what might happen when and if Hannibal found out.

He laughs nervously.

"I get why this all might seem shady to you," he says, "but if I wanted you in jail, you'd be there already. Remember?"

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "Still," he says. "What does Quantico's boy wonder want with me, if not to have me imprisoned? Am I a case study?"

And then, Will laughs again, not so nervous.

"Christ, no," he says, shaking his head. "I'm used to being the case study. I wouldn't put that on anyone else."

Hannibal smiles, and the expression looks lazy, relaxed.

"Then what are your plans for us tonight, Will?"

Will pushes himself to his feet. He takes his backpack and slings it over his shoulder. 

"I thought we could go catch the bus and go somewhere to eat. Maybe get the hell out of town for a few hours and tramp around in the woods."

"A social exercise? In the woods? With a murderer?" Hannibal bites his lip and then chuckles. "You really are something, Will Graham."

He grins. "What? I like you, Hannibal. Can't hurt to have some good, legal fun, right?"

Hannibal laughs, and Will guesses that's as close he's going to get to Hannibal returning the compliment.

"I suppose we'll keep the fun legal for now, yes."

"Come on, then," Will says. "There's a bus to downtown leaving in ten minutes. We should be able to catch it." 

He's already begun walking when Hannibal clears his throat. He looks over his shoulder.

"What?"

"I have a car," Hannibal replies, tilting his head. "I don't use public transport."

Will scoffs. "Of course you don't." 

"I hardly think that could be directed as an insult."

Playing Hannibal's words over in his head using that Mickey Mouse voice, he follows him to his car with a smile on his face. As poncy as Hannibal is, Will stands by what he said.

He likes him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you appreciate being able to easily access my fics and those of literally every author on this site, I would strongly advise that you [fill out this form to tell the FCC that you aren't cool with data discrimination](https://dearfcc.org/), which is a proposition that would make it impossible to easily access sites that aren't run by companies loaded with cash.


End file.
